


The Mountie Who Knew Too Little

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-22
Updated: 1999-04-22
Packaged: 2018-11-10 23:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11137059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Fraser finds out the hard way that naievety has its own dangers.





	The Mountie Who Knew Too Little

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

  
The Mountie Who Knew Too Little

 

hey ho, this one takes place in a world where <g>  
Victoria simply doesn't exist and Gardino is still alive. in other words,  
it's sort of second season-ish. think of it as an AU, if you prefer.  
there's angst a-plenty, although no-one is actually harmed in the process  
and they were all returned to the rental place in good condition. oh  
yeah, Woodall, Carlin and the Foundation are my inventions ... though  
their fundraising method's a little more original than running high-priced  
lotteries.

sometimes it's just not safe to be *that* naive. (and  
thanks to the person - she knows who she is - who asked me to write a  
story about the pitfalls of that naivete.)

spoilers: The Wild  
Bunch, I guess, although not until Part 2. dunno what else   
...

**m/m (like I needed to say it!)**

**NC-17 for  
minor but explicit sex between adult persons of more or less sane mind.**

this  
one ain't all that realistic, folks, but what the hey, slash is supposed  
to be fantasy, isn't it? what's that you say...?

comments, flames,  
offers of matrimony or hot monkey sex to

***

## The Mountie Who Knew Too Little

Part One: For a Good  
Cause

Jaime Arundel

***

"Hey, Fraser!" Jack Huey  
was grinning at him as he manoeuvred through the busy squad room towards  
Ray's desk. He could see Ray with his ear glued to the phone. "If it  
ain't the man of the moment."

Before Ben could ask Huey what he  
meant, he jerked his head towards the lieutenant's office. "Welsh wants  
to see you." He grinned again, something strange in his eyes that Ben  
didn't know how to interpret.

"Is there a problem?"

"Well  
... I wouldn't exactly call it a problem, Fraser." He was chuckling now,  
a deep, rich sound that Ben had rarely heard. Behind Huey, he heard Gardino  
snicker. He raised a curious eyebrow. Something was going on to put the  
squad room officers into such a strange mood, but he had no idea what.  
As he started towards Welsh's office, he looked again towards Ray's  
desk. The Italian was waving one hand frenetically in the air and appeared  
to be shouting into the phone. Ben smiled at the sight; he loved watching  
Ray when the detective was in one of his fiery moods.

Suddenly  
Ray looked up and saw him. He started to make urgent 'come here' gestures  
at Ben, moving the receiver to his shoulder. As Ben started to detour  
over to find out what Ray wanted, however, Welsh popped out of his office.

"Constable."  
His deep voice overrode all the noise of the squad room. "In here, please."  
And as Ben made a vague gesture to indicate that he wanted to talk to  
Ray first, Welsh added, "Now!"

Ben cast a last look at Ray, shrugging  
his shoulders, and was startled to see Ray shaking his head. What was  
going on?

Then Ray was on his feet, moving towards them, his lean  
body twisting elegantly through the crowded room. Ben felt his heart  
catch as it always did when his physical awareness of Ray was kicked  
to a higher notch. Carefully, he clamped down on his reaction, as he  
felt Welsh's heavy hand descend onto his shoulder. He turned, somewhat  
puzzled, and let Welsh guide him into his office.

He followed  
Welsh into the quiet room and shut the door politely behind himself.  
There were two other people in the lieutenant's office already: a business-like  
black woman who looked to be in her late thirties and a younger man.  
From the beige, multi-pocketed and slightly grubby vest he wore, Ben  
deduced that the man was a photographer of some sort, although there  
was no camera equipment visible.

"This is Constable Fraser, just  
the man we wanted to see." Welsh settled into his chair, leaning back,  
fingers laced loosely behind his head. He even had a tamer version of  
Huey's grin on his face. Fraser stood automatically at parade rest before  
the desk, as his mind ticked over possibilities for what might be going  
on. If there were some sort of crime involved, it couldn't be very serious,  
obviously.

"Constable, I want you to meet June Woodall of the  
Debrett Charitable Foundation and Joseph Carlin, a freelance photographer."  
He waved a hand at them. "This is the guy I was telling you about, the  
Canadian this precinct's adopted."

"Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP,"  
he responded, reaching out to shake both their hands. The woman's grip  
was firm, but the man's lingered a little too long. He withdrew his own  
hand as quickly as was consonant with politeness. He felt the slight  
flush of heat in his cheeks as the blonde gave him a knowing look and  
quickly focussed his attention on the woman.

"You help precinct  
officers with their cases,   
Constable?"

"Unofficially, ma'am." He glanced inadvertently towards  
the window, noticing that Ray was staring at them. "I assist Detective  
Vecchio."  
"What's a Canadian cop doing in Chicago?" the photographer  
asked.

"Ah," he said, shifting. "Well, it's a long story. But  
basically I came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father  
and for reasons that don't need going into at this juncture I have remained  
attached as liaison to the Canadian Consulate."

"Thank you, Constable,"  
Welsh said, hastily. "The thing is, Fraser, these people and the precinct,  
well, we have a request for you." All of a sudden Welsh seemed more embarrassed  
than amused. There was a slightly uncertain note in his voice as he turned  
to June Woodall. "Could you explain it to the Constable?"

"Of  
course." She shifted smoothly into action, speaking with the ease of  
long practice. "The Debrett Charitable Foundation raises money to support  
disease prevention initiatives and social programs in the third world.  
As part of our fund-raising effort, we put out an annual desk calendar."  
She looked at him, her dark eyes searching his. He made a noncommittal  
'go on' noise and she continued. Waving one hand dismissively, she said,  
"It's not the usual tacky guys in and out of uniform calendar that you  
see in cheap gift stores, Constable. This is a high quality, first-class  
production. We focus on what you might call the "helping professions,"  
the people whose service to the public makes civilized life possible.  
In other words, the very professions we're helping to get into place  
elsewhere in the world."

Ben made another facilitating noise.  
He had no idea what any of this had to do with him.

"Each month  
in the calendar has a series of illustrations, one for each day and a  
larger one, I suppose you could call it a centerfold ..." her voice made  
it clear that she would not use so dubious a term "... for each month."  
She paused, smiling at him briefly. "These are art photos, Constable,  
not beefcake."

The photographer shifted impatiently and she cast  
a quelling glance at him and continued. "We take photos, in this case  
they'd be of the squad room, the precinct house, the various detectives  
and officers ... and one particular person who stands out as being especially

attractive."

"That's where you come in, Constable," Welsh added,  
helpfully. "They don't think any of our guys are good looking enough,  
so rather than get passed over, we asked if they'd use you."

"You  
see, Constable, over the years, participation in the calendar has come  
to have a certain ... cachet, you might say. Fire halls, precinct house,  
clinics, anywhere there's an accumulation of good-looking men in public  
service positions, they all compete for the honour of being one of the  
twelve chosen. We haven't got any police representation so far this year,  
and we thought of the 27th  
because of its central   
location."

"Yeah, but the guys turned out a bit bow-wow, you get  
my meaning," the photographer inserted, sarcastically.

Ben looked  
at him in surprise. He'd thought of Ray as beautiful for so long that  
it startled him to find that someone else didn't see Ray that way.

"Joe!"  
Her look should have intimidated him, but he grinned unrepentantly, one  
eyelid drooping in a lazy wink at Ben. "The thing is, Constable, most  
of the people who buy the desk calendar, and it's not cheap, it retails  
at $29, want a certain kind of clean-cut look. Nothing too exotic or  
too ..."

"Grungy," the photographer supplied. "Society matrons  
don't wanna 'fess up to it, if they dig grunge, ya know."

Ben  
didn't know, so he turned his attention politely back to Ms. Woodall.  
"Am I to understand then that you want my photograph to represent the  
precinct? Wouldn't that be cheating?"

"Not at all, Constable."  
Welsh shot him a very dirty look, one that said 'co-operate, mister,  
or your buddy Ray will be doing traffic duty.' "We're merely acknowledging  
that the precinct owes a number of its solves to the assistance of a  
brother officer."

Ben heard the clear warning in Welsh's voice.  
He didn't really want to have his photograph taken, particularly if,  
as it seemed, it was being used to give the calendar 'sex appeal.' He  
knew many women were attracted to him, especially when he was in his  
dress uniform, but he didn't have to like it or encourage it.

"It's  
okay, Constable. You'll be in good company ... doctors, fire fighters,  
ambulance drivers, search and rescue ... ." Welsh's tone was persuasive  
and Ben found himself deciding that it could, after all, do no real harm.

Welsh  
turned to the other two. "Well, then, you're satisfied with this? You  
can use Constable Fraser?"

"Sure can," the photographer said,  
licking his lips while gazing directly at Ben. Ben saw the mocking challenge  
in the other man's eyes, but chose to ignore it. Stonewalling worked  
as well on men as it did on women.

He startled slightly when  
he felt the photographer's hand on his chin but allowed the other man  
to move his head about, staring at him. "Pure apple pie," Joe Carlin  
said in a satisfied voice.

***

If Ben had had any time at all to think, he might  
have wondered about asking Inspector Thatcher's permission. Then again,  
he might not, since Consulate staff were routinely expected to do their  
bit for charitable organizations.

No sooner had he agreed, though,  
than the photographer was calling down to a station wagon parked outside  
the precinct and various combinations and permutations of staff members  
were being chivvied hither and thither throughout the building. Even  
some of the prisoners were enlisted, the ones who weren't camera shy.

Conversation  
was impossible as he and Ray were herded around with the rest of the  
staff. He had no chance to find out what Ray had wanted. Looking around,  
he saw that Ray was wearing his most sardonic look, while the rest of  
the officers looked like they were enjoying this break in their routine,  
some of them hamming it up for the camera and having to be convinced  
to behave normally.

He was just glad that Dief wasn't there and  
that nobody had thought to mention him.

***

"Alright,  
Detective, lean back a little. Yeah, now look up at the Mountie. You,  
Fraser, look at ... what's his name again? Vecchio. Look at Vecchio.  
Good, good."

The blonde moved around them taking shots at a rapid  
rate. Ray could hear the whir of the motor drive and wondered how many  
rolls of film this guy got through to get a couple of decent shots. Now  
that he was working, he had lost some of the street punk air, but he  
was still obnoxious as hell, Ray thought. And somehow it seemed like  
he'd contrived to make sure that Ray had had no chance of a private word  
with Ben. Ray contemplated that for a moment, then dismissed the thought  
as paranoid. But he still didn't like the guy.

"Artsy fartsy little  
faggot," he muttered under his breath. As usual, he'd forgotten Ben's  
hearing and was startled to see the reproachful look in his eyes. So  
Mr. Pure didn't like him swearing. Too damn bad. Mr. Pure wasn't all  
that pure anyway, or he'd never have agreed to this photo thing in the  
first place.

Sighing with resignation, he got up to sit on the  
corner of his desk, now looking down at Benny, who was sitting in the  
chair, elbows on his knees, Stetson in his hands. At least it was a pose  
that let Benny look like himself.

Watching the play of muscle  
in Ben's forearms as he moved his hands to Mr. I-Am-A-Camera's instructions,  
Ray realized that part of his irritation was actually with Ben. He'd  
have bet his soul that Ben would never agree to play the role of centerfold.  
It irked him to think that maybe he didn't know his friend as well as  
he   
thought.

***

Two hours later, they were tumbling out of  
an assortment of vehicles onto the neat gravel parking lot of a major  
horse farm, located about a half hour drive outside of the city. It was  
late afternoon and the September sunshine was strong and bright, glistening  
on the well-curried coats of paddock after paddock of high-priced horseflesh.

Ray  
leaned against the paddock fence and watched sardonically as his best  
friend moved amongst the animals, talking happily with the trainer and  
his assistant. Benny shone almost the way the horses did: spit and polish  
and lots of training.

Oh yeah, he'd make the charity lady happy  
when he took his clothes off. Not to mention the artiste with the camera.

Watching  
as a horse was selected and saddled, Ray wished they'd just get on with  
it. The sooner it was over, the sooner he could go home, get himself  
a nice cold beer, and settle in front of his TV with something normal.  
Like an action movie. There was that new Claude Van Damme thing that  
he hadn't seen yet. The only way *those* guys got nude was if their clothes  
got blown off - and that was just the way Ray liked it.

Much against  
his will, once Ben was seated on a horse, red uniform buckled, belted  
and lanyarded to perfection, Ray had to admit that it made a pretty picture.  
If this were the only kind of photo they were gonna be taking out here,  
he'd have had no problem with the photo shoot.

Ben cantered the  
horse up and down the field a few times, back straight, Stetson level.  
The photographer had a massive telephoto lens and was doing the same  
irritating act, only this time at bullhorn volume.

"Okay, now  
take your coat off!"

Ben trotted the horse closer. Even from twenty  
yards away, Ray could see he looked a little quizzical.

"Lookit,  
Fraze, the red coat's kinda bright, ya know, so when I'm printin' the  
black an' white stuff, I ain't gonna get much but dark, you get it? So  
I want some contrast. You got that white undershirt on, right?"

Fraser  
nodded. Controlling the horse with his knees, he unbuckled, unbuttoned  
and undid. Ray was always amazed by how much of a production it was to  
get Fraser out of that tunic.

Dark hair, white shirt, dark pants.  
On a dark horse. Much as he hated to admit it, Ray had to admit that  
the photographer guy had a point.

"Right, now the undershirt."

This  
time, Benny's eyebrows both quirked up in a classic look of Mountie puzzlement.  
A sudden hint of suspicion tickled at the edges of Ray's mind. Fraser  
wasn't looking like he was expecting this to lead to a strip down. Maybe  
he really didn't know.

He looked around at the crowd of people  
attracted by the cameras. Welsh, Huey and Gardino were on one side of  
him, along with two second shift detectives, McKinley and Prahad; on  
the other, the charity woman and the trainer's wife.

As Ben's  
undershirt finally came over his head, the horse moved a little skittishly  
under the Mountie. Ray admired his friend's expertise as Benny swayed  
effortlessly with the horse, bringing it easily back under control.

"Look  
how fluidly the muscles move," the charity woman murmured. "Eminently  
rideable."

"Yes, you can really see a dark horse to advantage  
in the sunshine. His training program is coming along well."

"I  
wasn't talking about the horse."

"Oh." A pause. "Hmm." A longer,  
more considering pause. Ray studded the woman's profile; upturned nose,  
freckled cheeks, short wind-blown red hair, expensive riding clothes,  
and a general air of confident affluence. A woman who got what she wanted.  
"Now that you mention it, I guess I wouldn't throw him out of bed if  
I found him there." Seeing Ray watching her, she gave him a lewd wink  
and turned away, laughing.

Ray looked away, his face reddening,  
to see Benny urging the horse this way and that at the photographer's  
commands. His white, muscular torso shone in the bright sun. His hair  
was a little dishevelled where he'd pulled his undershirt over his head.  
That plus the suspenders dangling down his thighs made him look just  
a little dissolute, maybe even a little dangerous. The thought made him  
laugh. Benny wouldn't know dissolute if it hit him on the head.

***

As  
they waited for Carlin to get his lighting set up in the horse barn,  
Ray managed to position himself next to Welsh. The Mountie was still  
over with the horses, stroking a nose or two and patiently explaining  
something to Huey, who looked like he wanted, badly, to be rescued. Ray  
grinned; Ben was in educational mode again.

He wondered how Ben  
would feel once he had the rest of his clothes off, in front of those  
bright lights, and it occurred to him more forcefully that perhaps nobody  
*had* told Ben what was involved.

"Ah, sir," he said, cautiously.  
"Does Fraser know what sort of photos they're gonna be takin' in there?"

"Detective?"

"Have  
you ever seen one of these calendars of theirs, Lootenant?"

"Sure.  
Buncha half-dressed guys posing. Kinda dumb, but it's for a good cause."

"How  
long ago was that?"

Welsh pursed his lips, thinking, then shrugged.  
"Maybe seven, eight years ago. Why?"  
"It's just I can't see Fraser  
agreeing to take his clothes off, let alone do some of that other stuff."  
Casting his mind back, he figured out that the closest to nude he'd ever  
seen Ben was wearing uniform pants and a singlet ... He'd guarantee that  
the most of Fraser's skin other people had seen was his forearms when  
he rolled his shirtsleeves up.

"C'mon, Detective, it hasn't hurt  
him to take his shirt off."

"Ah, it's gonna be a little more than  
his shirt," Ray said, sarcastically. "Ya know what this guy specializes  
in? Arty farty nudes, and guys with outta focus hard-ons.... She," he  
gestured with his head towards the Foundation representative, who was  
deep in conversation with the photographer, "she calls it art, sir, but  
it's still dicks and butts. Porn for the opera and ballet set."

"You're  
kidding!"

"Nah." Ray shook his head. Welsh was looking at him  
oddly and it belatedly occurred to Ray that he'd better explain how he  
came by the knowledge. "My sister, Frannie, she makes a point of buying  
one every year. Then she leaves the damn things lying about ...." And  
if they get Benny to actually do this, she'll buy up half the damn stock,  
he thought.

Welsh stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. "A lot  
of precincts competed to get into this calendar, Vecchio. It can't be  
that bad." He cast a dubious glance at Fraser. "We can't get out of it  
now, anyway. We'd be the laughing stock of the Chicago PD."

***

Everything  
was set up finally and Ray breathed a sigh of relief when Carlin chased  
most of the onlookers out of the barn. The only ones left were the five  
guys from the precinct, Carlin's two assistants (Ray grunted when he  
saw them; predictably they were pretty boys), Carlin, Little Ms. Charitable,  
and Benny himself.

Ben was standing to one side, watching with  
interest as Carlin's helpers adjusted the lighting setup. When Carlin  
nodded at him, he turned to pick up his undershirt and tunic. Ray closed  
his eyes briefly. Exactly what he'd thought. Benny was about to get *dressed*  
\- he really didn't have a clue. He shook his head. No matter how often  
he ran up against it, it was hard to believe that anyone could be *that*  
clueless.

"What the hell are you doing?" A blonde head poked out  
from behind a viewfinder.

"My uni ... um ... I thought ...." Ben  
made a vague gesture.

"You're not putting 'em on, moron, you're  
taking 'em off."

Ben stood there, clothes dangling from his hands.  
Ray had heard the word 'poleaxed' but he'd never seen it so perfectly  
demonstrated.

"I ... I beg your pardon?"

"Off. You strip  
for a nude photo, Constable. You don't put clothes on." Mr. I-Am-A-Camera's  
voice had the patient deliberation of a man explaining the obvious to  
an idiot. Ray found his fists clenching inadvertently and had to force  
himself not to intervene. If he came galloping in now to try and rescue  
Benny, he'd make Ben look like a complete fool. And they'd both look  
like ... well, no need to go there.

"Nude? But nobody ..."

"What  
the fuck did ya think, man? Of course, nude."

"There's no need  
to be insulting, Joe." Ms. Charity, intervening smoothly. "Perhaps we  
didn't make the situation clear to the Constable. However, now that he  
knows, I'm quite sure he'll want to cooperate. He knows that the calendar  
is one of the Debrett Foundation's most successful fund-raising ventures.  
I'm sure he'll be glad to ..."

"I'm sorry," Ben interrupted. Ben?  
Interrupting someone? Ray blinked. "I can't do this."

"Ah, c'mon  
Fraze. What's the big deal? Ya think ya got somethin' we haven't seen?"  
Gardino at his tactful best.

Benny just shook his head, a blush  
creeping up his neck and turning his face the same colour as the uniform  
jacket dangling unnoticed from his hand.

"Hey, Louis, whyn't you  
strip off then?" Ray grinned rudely. "Show us those manly abs of yours."  
He knew that Gardino's incipient beer gut was a sore point with him.

Again, the black woman intervened. "That's not the point. The  
point is that the Constable agreed to do the shoot. We've already invested  
a large amount of time and money into taking this set of pictures. If  
we have to choose another precinct, that investment will be wasted. That's  
money that could have gone directly to helping people who desperately  
need every dollar."

Ah, she was good at the guilt. Ray wasn't  
surprised to see Benny hesitate. With much persuasion, the woman talked  
him through taking his boots and socks off, taking his jodhpurs off,  
a very slow production, since he had to be talked through each button  
separately. But when Benny's shaking hands laid his folded jodhpurs neatly  
on the pile with the rest of his clothes, things ground to a halt. He  
just stood there in his boxers, hands at his sides, looking miserable.  
He didn't refuse. In fact, he didn't respond at all and Ray wasn't sure  
that he was hearing what Woodall and Carlin were saying to him.

Clearly  
Benny had gone as far as he could. It looked to Ray as if Benny were  
physically unable to take the boxers off for himself.

The argument  
dragged on and on, Carlin and Woodall taking turns trying to persuade  
him. The three other detectives shifted restlessly, making rude comments  
amongst themselves until Welsh silenced them with a glare. Finally, they  
came to one of those pauses where it seemed nothing remained to be said  
or done. The unstoppable force had met the immovable object and neither  
could give way. Ray sympathised with the object though; he was sweating  
and shamefaced and he looked frightened. There was a growing anger in  
Ray's gut that his sweet-natured friend should have this happen to him,  
but he didn't know what to do about any of it.

"If he's got to  
keep those damn shorts on, he'll have to be hard," the photographer finally  
said, startling everyone with the sound of his voice in the near silence  
of the barn. Ray found himself wondering whether the guy's 'artistic'  
reputation was a front for real porn, that he could be so blas about  
a suggestion like that. He looked around at the other guys and saw them  
nodding as if this were normal. Only Welsh looked a little uneasy. Poor  
Benny, on the other hand, looked shell-shocked, standing there uncomfortably  
in his white boxers, his hands hovering nervously at his sides, as if  
he couldn't decide what to do with them.

He bit his lip to try  
and keep himself quiet. Welsh lumbered forward a couple of feet closer  
to the charity lady. "Ms. Woodall, no-one has said anything to us about  
taking pornographic pictures. It's hardly the role of a police precinct  
to be promoting ....."

"Lieutenant." She butted in smoothly, one  
hand going up to stroke the head of the stallion in the stall behind  
Ben. "I can assure you that the Debrett Foundation is one of this country's  
most respected charities. Whatever pose Mr. Carlin requests, you can  
be certain that the result will be at most ... erotica, of the most artistic  
possible kind. You surely cannot be implying that Wilmington Debrett  
would sanction having pornography made in his name? Or that the elite  
of Chicago would be willing to purchase such material?"

"Well...."  
Welsh huffed a little, cast an appalled glance at the motionless Mountie,  
met Ray's eyes for a brief instant, and subsided. No help there. It was  
obvious to Ray that Woodall had been through all of this before; she  
knew exactly when to punch the guilt button and when to go for the big  
guns.

"Aw, c'mon, Constable, make up your mind. Either take 'em  
off or get it up ..." The photographer winked broadly at the clutch of  
precinct guys watching from the stable aisle. "Ya know it's for a good  
cause. An' it's just friends here, no need for you to be as nervous as  
a virgin on a troop ship."

Even in the relatively dim light of  
the stable, Ray could see the blush that reddened Ben's cheeks. The tip  
of a pink tongue crept from his mouth and licked nervously over his lips.  
Ray found himself grinning, thinking of how his sister would have reacted  
to the sight of that tongue. Sure the guy was a hunk, but Ray had long  
ago figured out that it was the vulnerable, almost asexual, deer-in-the-headlights  
look of the Mountie that cranked his sister's hormones.

Some small  
part of him that he didn't quite want to recognize wondered whether Benny  
really *was* a virgin.

Benny still hadn't moved and the photographer  
was starting to look more frustrated than amused. "Geez, I don't have  
all day, ya know. Gimme some help here, guys."

"Come on, Fraser,"  
Duey said, moving briskly forward from his post in the doorway. "The  
sooner it's done, the sooner we can all get out of here. It's not such  
a big deal, not in this day and age. Whyn't you just take your shorts  
off?"

"Yeah, Fraze, c'mon, you can do it." That was Gardino, leaning  
languidly against a beam, grinning around a mouthful of chewing gum.  
Besides him, Prahad was nodding encouragement. Of course, Ray reflected  
sardonically, Huey and Louis'd had some experience with getting the Mountie  
to act against his principles; they'd helped him steal Milk Duds, after  
all.

Ray looked at them, looked back at Ben, still standing frozen,  
and frowned. This was getting stupid. He could appreciate that for a  
shy and intensely private person like his friend, the idea of being photographed  
with a hard-on bulging his boxers was a kind of torment. He shook his  
head: the only way Benny was going to end up naked was if someone else  
ripped those boxers off him. It probably would be easier to get him hard  
than to get him nude.

What in hell had Benny been thinking when  
he'd agreed to take part in this thing? But Ray was almost one hundred  
percent sure now that Ben's naivete probably extended to thinking that  
a 'Hunks of Chicago' desk calendar only meant photos of cops in uniform.  
After all, Welsh hadn't been exactly clued up as to what they were getting  
Fraser into.

"Look," the photographer snapped, running one hand  
over bristly blonde hair, "I've just about had enough of this. This is  
worse than fuckin' baby photos. Either get that guy naked or hard or  
I'm outta here and they can pick some other precinct." He glared directly  
at Benny as he said it.

Ray saw the lieutenant look at the other  
detectives and scowl. Welsh was right; it would make the precinct a laughing  
stock if the rest of the PD knew their chosen hunk had been dumped from  
the calendar for wimping out of the photo shoot.

"Constable Fraser,"  
Welsh said, his voice even and quiet, the very tone that made his underlings  
quake in his office, "I'm not sure that I like this any better than you  
do, but we no longer have a choice. So, get on with it, Constable. Now!"

Ben  
flinched as the last word resounded like a gunshot in the barn. His hands  
fluttered towards his groin, moved back. He cast one desperate, agonized  
glance at Ray before letting his head droop, gaze fixed firmly on the  
straw at his feet. Ray looked at him, standing there, immobile, ashamed,  
incapable.

Without conscious decision on his part, Ray was suddenly  
moving, pushing in between Benny and the door of the horse stall. The  
horse in the pen whuffled its nose along the back of his neck and he  
let out a small yelp at the contact. Geez, that thing was big! He had  
no idea how Benny could get on one and ride it, as he had for the earlier  
parts of the shoot.

"Ray ... ?"

"Shut up, Benny." His hands  
came around his friend's waist, slid over the front of his boxers, finding  
his cock through the thin cotton, rubbing it. There wasn't a lot of room  
between Benny and the horse stall and his nervousness about the horse  
kept him pressed up tight against Benny's back. He could reach more easily  
this way, anyway.

If he'd thought about it, he'd never have been  
able to do this. Especially in front of a bunch of other guys. But at  
least, from behind, touching Benny was just like touching himself. He  
sighed with relief as he felt the pulse and twitch of Benny's cock, heard  
the sudden intake of breath, felt the heat as Benny's temperature suddenly  
rose. It wasn't the only thing that was rising.

It was taking  
too long, he thought. He wanted nothing more than to get this over with.  
He kept his hands moving, stroking Ben's slowly stiffening cock through  
the cloth, feeling the unsteady trip of Benny's heartbeat against his  
own chest.

More stimulation ... "Think about it, Benny," he said.  
"The Dragon Lady, Benny. You kissed her on the train, didn't you? You  
liked that, didn't ya, Benny? It turned you on. Think about how good  
her lips felt, how her tits pressed up against your chest. Think she  
was wet for you, Benny? Think if you'd put your hand in her cunt, she'd  
have been all slick and ready for your cock?"

He felt the sharp  
heave of Benny's chest as the Mountie sucked in breath, the heat of his  
arousal. Oh yeah! That worked. Benny was hard and throbbing under his  
hand. He rubbed a little more, making sure. "Think about her spreading  
her legs for you, Benny. How tight and hot her pussy is when you take  
her ..."

Another strangled moan and gasp and Benny's body writhing  
against his. He didn't know if it was his hand or the images he was making  
in Benny's head or the words themselves. Benny was just prim enough that  
he probably found talking dirty a turn-on.

"Way to go, detective!"  
The photographer was waving one hand at him in a shooing motion, his  
eyes glued to the lens finder of his camera. "Take his hand and get him  
doing it himself, inside his shorts. Then get the hell outta the way."

Ray  
risked a glimpse at the other guys, seeing that they were looking at  
Benny as if they'd never seen him before. Shock and surprise and embarrassment  
... not to mention some parted lips. Well, he guessed it probably looked  
pretty hot, even if it was two guys .... He pulled back mentally, not  
wanting to even recognize the thought that had begun to form.

He  
pulled his right hand away from Benny's shorts, found Benny's right hand  
and dragged it in towards the flat, muscular stomach. At the same time  
his other hand found the waistband of the shorts and tugged outwards.  
Looking down he could see the purpled head of Benny's cock, the pearls  
of pre-cum already beading on its tip. Geez, but Benny was close ....  
His own hand, pulling Benny's with it, blocked the view. As soon as he  
felt the press of Benny's fingers, still entwined with his own, against  
the swollen cock, Ray tried to pull his hands back, ready to get the  
hell away.

Benny's fingers clenched on his own, holding his hand  
painfully against the hot brand of Benny's erection. At the same time,  
Benny's hips pushed back, his ass rubbing against Ray's groin, firm buttocks  
gyrating against him, moving as lasciviously as a whore's. It had been  
a long time since anyone had moved against Ray like that and he felt  
the instant response in all his nerve endings. He yelped and jerked away,  
ducking under the horse's huge head and literally running for the safety  
of the aisle.

Turning he saw Benny, eyes closed, one hand on his  
chest, tugging and pulling at an erect pink nipple, the other inside  
his boxers, jerking frantically on his cock. He saw Benny's head go back,  
the tendons of his neck pulling taut, his back arching. Benny was moaning  
now, his breath panting from him in great gasps.

"Ray!" The strangled  
cry burst from Benny's lips, just as the horse pushed its muzzle against  
his neck and over his shoulder, its enormous nostrils flaring as it sniffed  
the air.

Both hands were in his boxers now, pushing them down  
inadvertently, so that his cock and balls could be glimpsed through the  
ragged movements of his hands. Then he was falling, sinking to his knees  
in the clean straw, as his cock pulsed and pulsed, strands of come jetting  
erratically through his fingers to smear his chest and belly.

***

Ben  
was staring at the ground, his mind automatically contemplating the unlikelihood  
of finding clean fresh straw in the aisle of a working stable. He heard  
the words that were being spoken around them, but seemed unable somehow  
to process them. He could scarcely credit that less than a quarter of  
an hour ago, he'd been seated on a horse, having a fine time in the bright  
September sunshine. And now he was standing in a state of terror, unable  
to do what they wanted and somehow incapable of working out how to make  
it stop. Even his usual mantra of 'I am a Mountie' had not worked to  
calm him.

He startled as Welsh's deep voice resonated through  
the barn, saying something to him. He let his mind replay the words.  
Encouragement ... for him, and more than a small hint of dismay. Then  
the photographer, threatening to give up and pick another precinct for  
the 'honour.'

Ben felt his muscles freeze. He kept his eyes on  
the ground, unwilling to face the contempt and amusement that he'd seen  
in the other men's faces. He swallowed hard, wondering if he'd ever be  
able to go back to the precinct. He knew they'd be mocked by officers  
from other precincts, once the news got out. The hard gnaw of shame settled  
in his belly and knotted his gut.

"Constable Fraser," Welsh said,  
his voice even and quiet, "get on with it. Now!" The last word fell across  
his skin with the bite of a whiplash.

He tried to force his hands  
towards his crotch, to touch himself there as he did so often in the  
darkness of his own apartment. Some part of his mind, the part that was  
always focussed on Ray, was aware of the nervous shuffle of his friend's  
feet, the sound of his breathing, just a little faster than usual. Angry  
or impatient.... He couldn't let himself think that it might be arousal  
that was accelerating Ray's respiratory rate, he couldn't stand the torment  
of hope.

He jerked his hands back as if he'd been burned. If he  
touched himself, like that, in front of Ray.... He groaned subvocally,  
his hearing still focussed on Ray. If he touched his cock in Ray's presence,  
he knew he would burn, the fire running unchecked through him until nothing  
was left but the ashes of his desire. And Ray would know. He couldn't  
risk Ray's knowing.

Desperately he looked up, seeking his friend's  
eyes, asking for help, for a way out of this. Ray stared back at him,  
his face blank, and Ben couldn't hold his gaze. He looked down, shuffling  
his own feet in the straw.

When Ray pushed behind him, his whole  
body pressing up against Ben's back and thighs, Ben almost cried out  
with the shock of it. He was trembling even before Ray's hands reached  
around his flanks and pressed into the warmth of his groin. He heard  
himself say something, not sure what it was. Oh, this was fantasy come  
true, Ray's hands on him, touching him, stroking his cock, and he could  
feel himself rousing to it, couldn't stop it, even though he desperately  
didn't want this to happen here. They'll know, they'll know ... the words  
beat against his brain, their pace accelerating with the pulse of his  
blood as his heart rate soared out of control.

He closed his  
eyes fiercely and concentrated on images of cold, ice and snow and the  
tumbled edge of an iceberg. That was him, that iceberg, nine-tenths of  
him beneath the surface, but now big chunks of him were shearing off  
in the heat, tumbling with the roar of thunder into the sea.... He couldn't  
resist the flame of his own desire, the heat that demolished him. Oh  
please, no. Not now, not here. Please.

And then Ray's face was  
pressed against his, stubble rough against the smoothness of his own  
overheated cheek, and Ray's hot breath was on his collarbones, fanning  
against his oh so sensitive skin. He heard Ray's voice in his ear as  
those elegant wonderful hands continued to stroke and squeeze the rising  
length of his penis. Somewhere far distant, he was conscious of the photographer's  
intent concentration, the restless movements of the audience, the soft  
snuffle and snort as the young stallion moved skittishly in his stall  
behind them.

Ray's voice, loud in his ear, lashing at his consciousness,  
saying something about the Inspector. He tried to concentrate against  
the fierce beat of his arousal. Ray's voice, saying, "You kissed her  
on the train, didn't you? You liked that, didn't ya, Benny? It turned  
you on. Think about how good her lips felt, how her tits pressed up against  
your chest."

Your lips, Ben thought, moaning aloud. Your lips,  
your chest, pressed against my back, the way it is now. Pressing against  
me, bearing me down to the floor, your weight so good and heavy on my  
back. Oh god!

"Think she was wet for you, Benny? Think if you'd  
put your hand in her cunt, she'd have been all slick and ready for your  
cock?"

Slick and ready from the lubricant on your fingers, Ray,  
as they push into me. Oh, that feels so good ... And I'm ready for your  
cock, wanting it so badly, wanting you inside me ... I can feel my own  
cock, hard and aching against my stomach, your touch teasing along the  
shaft, while your fingers probe and twist inside me ...

"Think  
about her spreading her legs for you, Benny. How tight and hot her pussy  
is when you take her ..."

Oh god, Ray, please. My legs are spread  
for you and I'm begging for it, incoherent with wanting. My ass is hot  
and tight and you take me ...

Ray's hand captured his and pulled  
it down to his cock. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as the touch  
of their combined fingers flamed against his sensitive flesh. Hot, so  
hot! He pushed his hips back against Ray, moving them against him, seeking  
without thought to find Ray's cock and press it between his buttocks.  
Rubbing against the softness he found, trying to get it hard ... ready.  
Ready to sink into the scorching heat of him, ready to take him.

Take  
me, please. Oh Ray, please. Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! "Ray!"

And  
he was falling, scarcely feeling the scratch of straw against his bare  
knees and thighs. The fire blazed through him, turning him to molten  
liquid as his come spurted between his fingers, scalding his chest and  
belly with its heat. And then it cooled and he was left cold and dry,  
nothing but ashes.

When he finally brought himself to look up,  
they were all gone, except for the photographer and his assistants, packing  
up the last of the equipment and carefully not looking at him. He didn't  
move until he heard the station wagon start up and the crunch of its  
tires on the gravel. Ray was long   
gone.

***

FINIS  
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